He found his mother already there. She was eating a slice of butterless bread, and she looked so weary and discouraged Blue quickly inferred that her day had been unsuccessful and that she had begged further credit at the market. Still even this could not rob his eyes of their happy brightness, and hope leaped in her own. But she dropped back into dejection when she learned the cause, growing only mildly interested in the story of the whistle. Doodles, however, overflowed with enthusiasm and questions.
“Wasn’t it just lovely you happened to be there?” he cried, his eyes a-sparkle. “Oh, I wish I could have heard you blow it! Please do tell it over once more!”
So the brother recounted the exciting incident, almost forgetting his mother’s sad face in reliving the part that had thrilled him with such delight.
“How much will your papers come to this week?” Mrs. Stickney sandwiched irrelevantly between sentences.
“Oh! I don’t know,” began Blue. “Yes, I guess about ninety cents. You see, the Newtons have moved ’way over west, and Mis’ Dempster owes me for two weeks. I do’ know whether she’s goin’ to skip or not.”
“Have the Sizars paid yet?”
“Not a cent!”
“Do you ask them for it?”
“Oh, I ring the bell every week—and between times, too! But they’re gen’ally out, or if they ain’t they won’t come to the door if they see it’s me—”
“I, Blue—not me!”